


A Soul with No Leak at the Seam

by Tobyaudax



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 12:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18165308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobyaudax/pseuds/Tobyaudax
Summary: Lisa wants to know if you can go home again.





	A Soul with No Leak at the Seam

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a lyric in the [Peter Gabriel song, _Mercy Street_](https://youtu.be/Ej6NGrZ0iUM), which itself was inspired by an [Anne Sexton poem](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/45-mercy-street/).

She'd memorized the address on her first day of Kindergarten, Lenny on his knees in the gravel, reciting it to her until it was stuck in her head like a favorite song, and the bus arrived to take her away. _1629 Hadley Avenue, Central City, Missouri_. It's still there, still standing, and she can't figure out if she's surprised or not.

She remembers the day she thought she left for good, running out to the car idling in the driveway, dodging the first bottle but getting hit in the lower back by the second. It was empty and it didn't break until it hit the ground, shards of glass harmlessly peppering the rear passenger door after she'd slammed it shut, laughing and crying for her boyfriend to "Drive, drive, drive!" She laughed and cried for hours, until she threw up all the nice fast food her friends had treated her to. That night and into the morning, she drank a gallon of water on the hotel room's bathroom floor. The tile was so much cleaner than the bathroom at home- she never forgot that, either.

It's still there, but no one's lived in the big house for years. The paint is faded, the aluminum siding warped and hanging off in places. All but one shutter is gone, torn off or stolen or lying buried under dirt and garbage beneath their windows. She thinks there might be less trash around than when she lived there, but that's probably the bad memories talking. The balcony off the master bedroom is hanging on by nails and spite- there's no way it would even hold the weight of a child at this point. She walks around the back, picking her way carefully, one hand ghosting an inch away from actually touching the place. The big kitchen island is still there, the one Lenny sat her on while he made breakfast or lunch or whatever the meal was that kids ate at 1 a.m. when they were too scared to sleep. She's never had better scrambled eggs than in that house.

The back door is locked and she bites her lip to keep from laughing because she knows that will turn into tears, just like the last time. And like last time, and the years before that, she picks the lock- with greater difficulty; it's rusty, she's not- and lets herself in. Different floorboards creek when she tries to avoid the ones she remembers and she freezes, thrust back in time for a moment, waiting for the groan of bedsprings, hoarse curse and heavy footsteps on the stairs. But no one is home. Dad isn't here, or in Iron Heights, anymore. Lenny isn't here, or Iron Heights… or anywhere. No one is home but Lisa.

She remembers the day Lenny left for good, even though she didn't see him go. She was locked in her room, tucked in the closet where she knew dad would find her. Lenny always said not to hide in the closet, or under the bed. " _Find a corner, beside the dresser, behind the door; hide almost out in the open- he never looks there._ " Dad was lousy cop. Lisa has dated some lousy cops, and some good ones. She mostly did it to piss Lenny off, but also because the crooked ones reminded her of home.

No one is home, so she tries the light switch near the sink. Nothing happens. It's been empty too long, so of course the power was shut off. But she came prepared; even if she wasn't sure the house would still be there. Mick used to tell her to make sure she always had a lighter on her, even if it was just one of those dollar numbers he or Lenny lifted from a gas station. She figured Mick just wanted to make sure he could set something on fire in case he lost his own lighter, but now she sees it was good advice. There are dishes in the sink- a plate, a cracked glass, plastic cutlery. It doesn't look like the kind she grew up with; too new, even now, under layers of soot and dusty cobwebs.

She holds the lighter up and out to one side as she walks down the narrow hall into the living room, in case someone is there, watching, waiting; they'll shoot wide and she won't be blinded by the little flame when she fires back. All the furniture is gone but the carpet is still there, even more threadbare than she remembered. It's too dark to tell what the new stains are and she doesn't want to know. She picks her way up and over the broken stairs and creeps down the upper level floor, close to the wall, quiet as she can. Dad isn't here, she knows he isn't, knows he's gone, but the habit is ingrained. It'd be easier to learn piano than to be loud in the house she grew up in.

Her bedroom door is hanging on by a hinge and the window is broken, glass on the floor where her bed used to be. She stands in the doorway, lighter out and high and shaking so bad she has to turn it off and drop it back in her pocket. She stands in the doorway for a long time, listening to the wind and her breathing and the sound of teardrops on her leather jacket. Her feet take her across and down the hall, four steps now, instead of six, or the eight it took when she was a little girl. The windows in Lenny's room are in-tact, but the glass is so dirty, she can't even make out the streetlight on the corner. Her hand is still shaking when she takes out the lighter again, her breath so loud she's sure the closest neighbors can hear her. Like they never heard her screams before, or Lenny's shouting, or dad's fists.

The lighter doesn't catch right away and there's a second where she swears the room is exactly how she last saw it: twin bed, flea market-found dresser, desk that was always too small for him, and circle rug that got smaller all the time from his nervous hands picking out the threads. But the flame sputters to life and the room is bare. Just dust and spiders. The closet is open and she walks over to it on silent feet, the floor still quiet in all the places she remembers. The one loose floorboard is there and she tears it free, ignoring the splinters under her nails. She reaches inside, one hand holding the lighter, a dance club in the tiny closet from how badly she's shaking and _they're still here!_

Lisa falls back with a grunt, the lighter falling and tumbling away. She scrambles on hand and knees to find it, heedless of the finger and hand prints she's left, and rushes downstairs, out the front door. She jumps down the stairs, breaks a heel and limps to her bike. Once she's safe, once she can't see the house anymore, once she can see again, she takes the old, plastic bag out from under her arm.

She moves the plastic with steady hands and Lenny's entire comic book collection- all thirteen issues from different publishers and series- is displayed before her. The pages are brittle and the bag has rat shit in it, but all the books are there.

She sits on the recently-paved road, back to her bike and broken boots in the ditch, and carefully reads every comic, cover-to-cover.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had that idea stuck in my head for a number of months, but didn't have the energy to write it out before. This was actually a better ending than the original story, so you're welcome. There was supposed to be more ruminating about Lewis, but I couldn't find the words this morning.


End file.
